


Making Change

by grapehyasynth



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, David is having a Day, Laundromat, Laundry, M/M, Meet-Cute, Slash, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29643771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: It’s only when he’s bundled the dirty laundry into three different machines and pulled out a ten dollar note he’d taken out of his dad’s wallet when he realizes he might have a problem.The thing only takes quarters.Or, David and Patrick meet at the Schitt's Creek Laundromat
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 31
Kudos: 274





	Making Change

**Author's Note:**

> meant this to be a drabble, it ballooned
> 
> meant it to be a little softer but i'm in a mood so david's in a mood
> 
> as usual i'm weeping over the better, more meaningful ideas in my google doc that sit untouched
> 
> i have not edited this at all, we die like fools

David would never _willingly_ enter a laundromat. Not that this is a hostage situation; he’ll leave those to Alexis. But he’s not here for his own clothes. No no no. It’s just - Stevie is sick, or maybe she’s still kind of taking the whole _two bedroom apartment_ thing out on him, no matter what she says about being over him, so their sheets and towels have piled up and Stevie says she won’t get around to them until next Tuesday and David cannot use the hand towel in the bathroom for one more day. _Alexis_ touches that towel.

So he nicks the pushcart from the storage closet, holding his breath the whole time, and shoves all their dirty linens and towels into it and pushes it down the sidewalk. He gets catcalled three times, two of them from Roland, and surely this is more humiliation than most people experience in a lifetime?

The laundromat is blissfully empty, probably because it’s a Thursday and most people have more exciting or important things to do, like get manicures or memorize the cafe menu or clip ear tags on pigs. It smells like the lowest common denominator detergent in here. He can’t believe he lets that smell touch his skin on a regular basis.

It’s only when he’s bundled the dirty laundry into three different machines and pulled out a ten dollar note he’d taken out of his dad’s wallet when he realizes he might have a problem.

The thing only takes quarters.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. This town is stuck in the 90s, or something.

The cafe’s a five minute walk back down the road, so that’s out. He can’t risk leaving the laundry here and someone stealing it while he’s gone, because then Stevie would make him pay for it, but nor will he be appearing in public with that pushcart more than strictly necessary.

He could call Alexis and ask her to bring some quarters, but he seriously doubts a) that she has any, b) that she knows the difference between a quarter and, like, any of the other coins, and c) that she would do it.

He’s just considering googling the number for Bob’s Garage to see if he can trick Bob into bringing him money when the door opens. David glances up - oh good, someone to witness his slow descent into madness - but his gaze slips off the man who’s entering with a big basket of blues and catches on the vending machine.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” he breathes. “Sorry, not you,” he adds quickly as the man stumbles in his stride.

He hurries to the vending machine and considers his options. He’d brought a book to read while he waits for the wash, but food would significantly improve the experience. There are hard pretzels and small packets of chocolate chip cookies and six kinds of candy, but it’s all a brand David doesn’t recognize and isn’t sure he should trust.

He decides to go for the cookies, because even that paltry bit of chocolate promises relief.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

David looks up. The newcomer is standing very close, smiling apologetically. He points to the vending machine. “That stuff is never refreshed. I think they lost the key to it about five years ago.”

“Oh, I know,” David lies, the visions of sugary respite withering in an instant. He goes ahead with typing in the code for the cookies. “I just need the change.”

“That’s why there’s a-” The man cuts himself off as the vending machine eats the ten note. “Change machine.”

David’s head whips around. “ _What_?”

The man’s mouth is turned down on either side, like he’s frowning with pity and empathy but also like he’s laughing at David a little, which is - unbelievable. He steps back so David can see the machine set into the wall right next to the vending machine. **MAKE CHANGE HERE** reads a sign above it in obnoxious hot-pink letters.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” David huffs.

“Sorry, man.”

David collects his cookies and quarters and stalks back to the washer. Behind him, the stranger is making change, and each metallic _clink_ into the tray drives a nail of fury into David’s skull.

He makes it through the rest of the prep with only minor crises, like wondering if it’s actually more sanitary to wash the loads with no detergent rather than with the creepy grey-purple stuff Stevie had at the motel, and when it’s in and whirling and no water is leaking out the bottom, he tucks himself in a rickety plastic chair with his book and the detestable packet of cookies.

Which he really, really wants to eat.

There’s no expiration date on them; he checked. So they - they _could_ be fine.

He tears one corner of the foil packet carefully and sniffs. They _smell_ fine, in that more-chemicals-than-natural-ingredients way that durable processed food is supposed to smell.

He takes one out with two fingers. It’s tiny and he’s sure it’s about to be so dissatisfying but he could’ve used this time to do a mask or take a nap and instead he’s _here_ and he’s _starving_ because he’d finished the yogurt he stole from Alexis a full hour and a half ago.

He takes a tentative bite of the cookie - and looks right up into the wide, brown eyes of the unhelpful stranger, who’d taken up the seat opposite.

David forces out a smile as the stranger blushes and looks away, turning back to his phone, and the second he does, David spits the cookie back into the wrapper. It’s vile, crumbly and malodorous and possibly toxic. Where is the nearest hospital? _Fuck_.

He doesn’t read his book at all, too fixated on trying to sense any changes in his body as he waits for the food poisoning to set in. He can’t even properly appreciate the way the stranger has gotten comfortable, leaning back with one ankle propped on the other knee, his jeans pulled taut on his thick legs. Okay, David can _kind_ of appreciate it, even in his state. Just not _properly_.

Their machines go off at about the same time, and they awkwardly cross paths, doing that stupid little _you go first_ dance until the stranger takes David by the elbows and moves him aside. It’s _very_ forward and take-charge-y and David resents him and resents the cookies and resents the vending machine company and resents that not only does he have to use cheap-ass sheets and towels but now he has to _wash them himself_ like an actual goddamn peasant. If not for fucking Stevie he’d never have had to interact with this ... this.... person!

There are only three dryers, so they wind up side by side, silently moving their wet laundry into the machines. David’s debating between _heavy duty_ and _bedding_ when the man speaks again.

“There’s a bakery in Elmdale.”

David pauses with his hand on the knob. “I’m sorry?”

The man’s blushing again, and he’s trying to hide it by focusing on the clothes he’s shifting but it’s all up over his ears and down into the crevice of his excessively unbuttoned shirt. “There’s a bakery in Elmdale that has really amazing chocolate chip cookies,” he says, carefully, like he’s restraining himself. “I would - recommend that. If you need to get rid of that whole -” He jerks his head back at the seating area, where David’s self-poisoning had occurred. “Experience.”

“And here I thought we were going to pretend that never happened,” David says drily.

“I was. But their cookies are _really_ good, and it seemed a disservice to not let you know. I’d go with heavy duty, by the way. These machines are pretty old too, and that’s the only setting that actually gets stuff dry on the first go.”

David blinks, then looks down at his hand still clutching the dial. “Oh. Thank you.”

“I’d offer to take you to go get some now, while this stuff dries, but - my car’s in the shop.”

“That’s okay, I - no offense, but I literally don’t know you?”

The man laughs. “That’s fair.” He holds out his hand, and it’s a little bit cool and wet from the laundry, but his grip is firm, like it had been on David’s elbows, and he meets David’s gaze without blushing this time. “I’m Patrick, for what it’s worth.”

“Patrick the cookie connoisseur,” David nods.

“Well,” Patrick shrugs, “I care what I put in my mouth. I mean-”

David can’t believe it, but he’s smiling in the laundromat. “Careful, don’t get that blush near my whites,” he cautions. “I am not here for pink towels.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick chuckles, taking a dramatic step back, his hands up. “I’ll keep my distance.”

“From the laundry,” David clarifies and takes a small step in the same direction.

Patrick looks at him in wonder. “Yeah. From the laundry.”

“I'm David, by the way. Um-” And he can’t believe he’s about to ask this, it’s such a cliche, but the detergent fumes are probably going to his head. If someone steals the linens, he’ll tell Stevie he got mugged, or something. “The cake at the cafe is moderately edible. If you - wanted to get some of that, in lieu of the cookies.”

It’s 11AM, hardly what most people would call prime cake hour, but Patrick doesn’t miss a beat. “While I normally wouldn’t trust your taste after what I saw happen here today, I’ve tried the cake there myself and can testify to its moderate edibility.”

“ _Okay_ , what _happened here today_ is that I was _assaulted_ by Soviet-era baked goods,” David declares, and Patrick laughs, of all things. “My _taste_ shall not be aspersed.”

“ _Aspersed_ ,” Patrick repeats, a little incredulous, but he holds the door open for David.

“You’re buying,” David tells him. “You’re practically rattling with all that change.”


End file.
